Not a credit card, not a rock through the window.

A key.

I laid my fork on the napkin and turned the phone so the screen sat flat in my palm.

Fiona walked right past the entry table without a glance and went straight to my office.

The camera over the desk caught her in a gray hoodie, hair pulled back, her thumb already moving on the screen.

She yanked open the bottom drawer with one pull, the same one I’d found scratched the week before.

“That’s my desk,” I told the salt shaker.